Like My Mother Does
by ttfan111robstar1
Summary: It's Mother's Day, and Steve takes time to reflect on one of the most important people in his life- his Momma. Based off of the song "Like My Mother Does" By Lauren Alaina. One-Shot.


He always prayed for Momma.

He looked at the faded picture he had of her on his nightstand every day. It was the only picture he had of her. It had been one of the two of them. He'd only been a baby when it had been taken, but he thought it was the best depiction of her he could have gotten. She was smiling into the camera with her pretty white teeth, holding him in her arms, love shining in her expressive eyes. This was the Momma he remembered. He didn't like remembering what Momma looked like just before she died. She'd looked so weak and it had looked so _wrong _to him. But her eyes never changed- they were expressive and beautiful to the end.

The first thing that had attracted him to Peggy were her eyes- they were bright and expressive, just like his Momma's had been.

He thought, at times, that he looked a lot like her. He had her same blonde hair and expressive eyes. Before the serum, he had had her frail body, and long fingers. He had Daddy's facial structure, but Momma didn't talk about Daddy very much. He supposed it was too much for her at times. She already had so much to deal with with their poor finances and working all day that he didn't want to add stress to her any further.

More importantly, though, he had her personality.

He always prayed before bed, just like she'd taught him, gave thanks for his blessings, and said grace to himself before eating his meals. Even in the Army, the habits had remained ingrained into him- and perhaps were amplified when God was the only constant in his world. When he joined the Avengers, he'd added all of them to his evening prayers, hoping for blessings for his team.

He always helped those less fortunate than himself. Ever since he'd moved into Stark Tower, he'd been blessed with more room than he needed, more food than he could eat, and more money than he cared to have. He made it a habit to stop in the soup kitchen every Sunday and serve the homeless. He knew exactly how it felt to be poor, so he made sure to remind himself how lucky he was. If he saw a hungry man on the street, he'd buy them their next meal without a second thought. It was how he'd been brought up.

He always went to church on Sundays. He had been raised a Catholic and had stayed one throughout his time in the army and in his modern future. In the army, he'd gone to whatever service they provided and always spoke with the Chaplin. When he'd woken up one of the first things he'd done was look for a Catholic church. One thing he was incredibly grateful for was that mass always stayed the same. It was one of the things that had helped him adjust to this time. Mass had always been a comforting symbol of routine for him ever since he could remember.

He always kept his wits about him.

He never took a moment of his life for granted.

He kept an optimistic attitude.

He never let anything or anyone sway him from his morals.

He never forgot where he came from.

He always kept his temper in check and tried not to judge others.

It was what his Momma had taught him to do.

She had been the sole flesh and blood he'd had on this earth, and he'd extracted every possible thing he could learn from her during his short time with her. She'd molded him into the man he was today. The Army hadn't made him a soldier- his Mother had. She'd taught him to keep on fighting when all seemed lost.

The only reason he'd kept going on after she passed away was because she'd taught him to never give up.

He'd cried for days when she'd died. It wasn't something he hid- he was brutally honest about it. He never felt emasculated when he talked about it, because who _wouldn't _have cried? The woman who raised him from birth by herself, gave up everything to care for him, nursed his wounds when he was hurt, and loved him when no one else did was gone.

_Gone._

He had fought not to go to the orphanage, but they'd forced him to leave his childhood home, and, consequently, the remains of the life his Momma had worked so hard to give him. He was not bitter toward God for her early passing- instead, he found himself grateful that she had only suffered such a short time. It didn't ease the pain- or the nightmares.

He'd woken up with asthma attacks every night the first week after she'd died because it had been so terrifying.

Everything was changing, and she wasn't there to help him through it.

Momma had told him the story of his first day of Preschool while she was on her deathbed. She told him that she'd walked with him all the way to the door before he stopped her and said, "I can do it, Mommy." She'd kissed his forehead and let him go, almost broken hearted at the thought that her baby was getting so big. The change from having him around all the time to hardly having time with him at all was monumental for her, but she'd found her way through. This was his first big change on his own, and he could only hope he'd handled it half as well as his Momma had all hers.

The world was constantly in flux now.

Changing, changing, changing all the time.

It was days like today, Mother's Day, When he missed his Momma the most and wished she'd been able to watch him grow and change. He looked at the picture on his nightstand and pulled it into his lap, fingering the wooden frame. She looked so happy in that picture, and he could only hope she was proud of him. She was his reason to go on, the angel always watching over him. She was grace when none was found, and was one of the kindest souls he'd ever been blessed to know.

"I miss you, Momma." He thought aloud. "I'll make you proud."

He went to put a rose on her grave that evening, and the strangest thought popped into his head:

She was so proud of him. She would always be cradling him with her invisible arms, and holding him tightly through all of his changes.

When he looked in the mirror, the first thing he thought was that he was starting to look like his Mother does.


End file.
